


Flowers in the Dustbin

by Cheese_kun



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheese_kun/pseuds/Cheese_kun
Summary: Bruce, now in his early sixties and married for nearly twenty years, was caught off guard by a sudden thought that he suddenly hated the sight of Clark.In an attempt to salvage a marriage that was threatening to fall apart due to Bruce's sudden indifference, he booked a vacation to remake the bond...from one landmark to the next.





	Flowers in the Dustbin

**Author's Note:**

> This project was such a struggle for the me who had not written a single story in four years. And even now, posting this is very nerve wrecking. 
> 
> But the Superbat Big Bang community has continued to be nothing less but supportive and encouraging. Thank you also to the ever so helpful and patient Mods who saved my life on multiple occasions. And a big thanks to flirtygaybrit who gave me the last incentive to give the fic a real ending. 
> 
> Also, I was too lucky to be able to team up with SDS and Bee who managed to make this story come to life with the most beautiful arts. I am forever bamboozled and grateful. Check out their art [HERE](https://magpiebee.tumblr.com/post/186041602485/so-excited-to-share-my-very-first-superbat-big) and [HERE](https://sdeeys.tumblr.com/post/186041469157/art-made-for-the-sbb-fic-flowers-in-the-dustin-by)

Bruce knew that he’d always had an ungrateful streak.

Back in the days, he would save five civilians in a single night and still hate the fact that he’d probably left another, somewhere, to die. Even now, with his successor wearing the cowl, and a loyal clan protecting what he used to call his city, he could not bring himself to lean back and to the moment say: Beautiful moment, do not pass away.

There was, however, always one thing he never took for granted. It took them too long to come to the realisation, and eventual declaration, that they belonged with each other. That they should be lovers, that they should be each other’s husbands. And the only regret Bruce had ever felt about them, was that they had wasted so many years loving but never telling.

Which was why Bruce, now in his early sixties and married for nearly twenty years, was caught off guard by a sudden thought. He watched Clark bite into his breakfast toast. He was handsome as ever, hair greying but only in the right places, like a cashmere turtleneck-wearing perfection. And in that very moment, he thought that he truly hated the sight of Clark.

The crunching sound of teeth biting into crisp toast, Clark’s sitting posture, his patrician profile— he hated them all. It was not even irritation, rather a complete sense of repulsion. Bruce felt sick and hid his displeasure behind a pristine white serviette.

“You okay over there?” Clark’s concerned gaze locked on him over the rim of his cup. Bruce saw him move for a touch. He grabbed for his phone and leant the other way.

“Just checking on Damian. Surprisingly, he doesn’t do well in a bachelor apartment. He’s only now beginning to admit it, after…has it been four, five years?”

Clark chuckled. Such a grating sound. “Sounds like someone we know.”

Bruce didn’t feel like he could take Clark’s teasing today. His mood did not go unnoticed, not to the man who had been married to him for two decades. Clark managed to place a soothing hand on Bruce’s cheek. He smiled apologetically, and kissed the top of his head, before heading down to the Cave to presumably teleport to the Watchtower.

Clark Kent, formerly mild-mannered reporter, was a retired man. That only meant that he was full time Superman. Instead of his age becoming a hindrance, it only served to give him more freedom than ever. Typical Clark.

Left alone to ponder over the intrusive thoughts at breakfast, Bruce stared at his cup of coffee. Something akin to rising panic spread in his chest. The air surrounding him felt thin, and it was like grasping onto something that was quickly slipping away.

During all the years he had known Clark— through their distrustful beginnings, into their reluctant partnership, inseparable friendship, tentative love, and eventual domestic life— he had felt many things for that man. Bruce could be hateful, but he could not remember a single instance, in which a love declaration to his husband, told in secret in the safe space of his mind, would not ring true.

Today it sounded like a lie.

* * *

Clark was playing with the parting of his hair yet again.

It was an annoying habit he had recently developed in front of the bathroom mirror whenever they went about their nightly routine. “Which side do you think makes me look younger?” as if he didn’t already look like an unrealistic classical painting of an elderly man. Socrates with abs.

Bruce refused to make it a habit to play with his hair in that carefree manner. He had not the luxury of luscious locks for days, and indeed his hair was thinner now. However, not as thin as Oliver Queen’s. Poor bastard was punished by both his advancing years and unfortunate genetics.

“You should just dye your, what, five grey hairs if you’re so insistent on looking younger.”

“But you like my grey bits.”

“I do?”

“You said so last month.” Clark ran his fingers one last infuriating time through his hair before leaving it the way it was before.

“I cannot recall. It has been so hard for me to find you likable at all.”

Clark’s hand hovered frozen above the faucet. He turned towards his husband, who now refused to look at him, gaze instead intent on his own reflection in the mirror.

“When they say that people fall in and out of love just like that, I thought it would happen three years into our relationship. When the sex would inevitably bore you, or when you would finally realise that I am not at all worth all that emotional investment. Or hell, maybe when I turned 50 and you looked like you had barely hit 40.”

“Those are all scenarios of me getting tired of you,” Clark said with contained emotion. “Who would have thought that it would be you. Twenty years into our marriage. For heaven’s sake, Bruce.”

Clark’s attempt to squeeze toothpaste onto his electric brush, resulted in a sad blob of paste sticking to the sink’s bottom instead. He stared at it and could not comprehend the world. The back of his eyes stung.

A tentative touch on his wrist directed his gaze towards it. Bruce held onto him with stubbornness.

“Don’t think I want to give us up. You are the love of my life.”

The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched in lieu of a smile forced into place, but the work it did against gravity made it tremble something awful. “But not right now.”

Yes, Bruce thought, just not right now.

* * *

Bruce was still a busy man despite his retirement from active vigilantism. His day job as a businessman would encompass any other man’s entire life. It did not change the fact that every so often, he would find himself with free time at night.

It was too late in the night to play doting grandfather to Dick’s daughter, but it was also too early to retreat to the bedroom. Bruce considered the pros and cons of acquiring a hobby in his old age but was momentarily content with simply browsing a famous video platform.

The thing about an idle man browsing the internet, as it seemed to be the case for Bruce Wayne, was that one would eventually go down the rabbit hole of a vast and endless madness that was the recommended video section. He had been watching a critical commentary on the existence of the Watchtower, of the slippery slope that was the power given to a group of people overseeing the world.

Some thirty minutes later he was watching a woman build dysfunctional robots in her home, and now he was on the third video of an “influencer’s” travel vlog. Bruce’s eyes were starting to water from the strain of binge watching aesthetically pleasing shots, idealised and cropped images of “grammable” locations, product placements on a lavishly decorated breakfast table. The curious thing was, that the filtered images did fascinate him in a way.

Bruce really knew the reality of Paris, the not so glamorous part of it, but there was something about the pink filters used by this particular vlogger girl, and the way she was living the romance of the city with her boyfriend, that stirred something in his chest.

Overcome by a sudden impulse of wanderlust and desperation to save his marriage with, hopefully, the help of the most romantic city in the world, he booked a flight and hotel. And subscribed to the vlog channel.

* * *

Le Pavillon de la Reine was a luxury hotel in the heart of the Parisian district of le Marais. It was a high-class abode without the obnoxious glamour of the Ritz, and definitely in a neighbourhood not as typical as the first arrondissement. At least, that’s what the vlogger girl suggested.

Unlike the same façades that were indicative of the Parisian uniform of cream-coloured Lutetian limestone, Le Marais appeared almost frozen in medieval times. Where the characteristic city centre streets were broad and light, Marais had narrow cobbled streets, winding like a maze.

Bruce could already smell the alternative tourism vibes of the high society kind. Excellent for a retired billionaire couple looking to rekindle the light of love.

Clark stared up the charming seventeenth century building— a large structure, and yet hidden away, with creeping vines climbing up the façade. It looked like a hideaway paradise in one of the busiest cities in the world.

“Bruce…this is…marvellous. I thought you’d book us into the Ritz.”

Bruce scoffed. “Please. The Ritz is where the nouveau riche goes to show face.”

Clark looked at him with doubt. “Anyways, it looks like you actually did some romantic researching. I really appreciate it because, to be honest, Paris sort of stinks and is a landfill by the end of the day.”

Bruce knew he was supposed to focus on Clark appreciating him, but he was stuck with the stinking remark about Paris.

And Bruce _chose_ Paris, and Clark had the gall to complain _about_ Paris.

“God. _You_ stink and look like a landfill by the end of the day,” he spat and brushed past his gaping husband into the hotel lobby.

His trolley rattled along the cobblestone and ruined the ambience of a hideaway paradise. Clark lifted his arm and sniffed.

Bruce busied himself with a meticulous timetable for a most effective Parisian experience, according to a list of fifty things you must do in Paris. They should be able to rush through numerous of the listed locations in a day, even factoring in the time to jump on and off the metro. Provided, he did not grow tired of dealing with the public transport and switch to being chauffeured halfway through.

He was stuck in a cycle of contemplating between the evils of public transportation and the impracticability of taking the car in the middle of town when Clark emerged from the hotel bathroom in a cloud of steam.

“The bath tub is entirely black. I feel like we should get one too.”

Bruce gathered the maps and written schedules into one neat stack. “You have exactly twelve minutes to get ready. I made us daily sightseeing schedules, and if we want to make good of our time, we need to leave soon.”

Clark frowned at him. The kind that was supposed to translate as confusion, but Bruce knew to be disapproving.

“Bruce, shouldn’t we take it easy? Take some time to mentally arrive here, cure some jet lag, relax? I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for Paris.” And as if to prove his point, he let himself float down into the embrace of a silk pillow. “Come here, Bruce. Maybe cuddling will remind you of why you love me.”

His tone was carefully light. Bruce knew Clark far too well for it to work. Forcing down his bubbling annoyance, he joined the other with a grumbling sigh.

Two elderly men shared the same bed and were reminiscent of a couple of school boys who were trying so hard not to touch, for fear of any untoward, given to misunderstanding, situations.

“Well, this is awkward,” said Clark.

Bruce felt the other hesitate. There was an awful lot of twitching and almost movements at his side. Clark eventually overcame whatever caution he had and rolled closer. He wrapped one arm over Bruce’s shoulder and snuggled close.

Bruce was engulfed in Clark’s scent and warmth, a familiar mixture of spices and vanilla because Clark always stuck to the same hair and body routine, even when he was travelling. Ever since Bruce gifted him that particular exclusive set on their first Valentine’s day. It was an on the spur buy, but Clark had repurchased the same set for decades now. That was the kind of romantic that Clark was. And it took Bruce by surprise, how that spicy-sweet headnote catapulted him back to the boutique from years and years ago, when the sales assistant had tried to make him buy the most expensive shower gel for his girlfriend.

He had ended up asking for the most expensive shower gel for a boyfriend.

“Promise me, that you will tell me when your love is lost for good. The last thing I want is to make you live with someone you are indifferent about,” Clark murmured against Bruce’s temple, “But please give us a fighting chance.”

Bruce knew he could never hate Clark— that he would always be the love of his lifetime. And he desperately wanted to reclaim that feeling of belonging whenever they embraced, but he also couldn’t get rid of this sense of estrangement.

“Some people say that some space might help. That you would gain a new perspective. I don’t want that for us. Believe me when I say that I’m trying, Clark.”

Bruce felt Clark nod several times as if to reassure himself. They didn’t speak for a long time, and eventually, fatigue took over and they fell asleep like that.

The sun was low and coloured the hour in a golden hue when they awoke.

* * *

They only left the hotel the next morning. And it was already shaping up to be a terrible day with their moods already hitting a low by eleven in the morning.

It was due to the fact that they took the wrong metro twice, which in turn messed up Bruce’s meticulous time table. Bruce already had a bad tolerance for deviations in his plans but with the current climate in their relationship, he was insufferable and snappish.

Even Clark’s patience was running thin. He did not much like the city, thought it an overrated tourist trap. And it did not help that the romantic fantasy of walking through underneath the steel giant Eiffel Tower into the Champ de Mars park was crushed by the fact that it was now surrounded by a glass wall and a security check. With a very long queue.

“Well, this isn’t very romantic,” Clark said as a security guard patted him down and another checked the contents of his bag.

Bruce looked ready to kill. Obviously, he did not anticipate this unromantic turn on an already unromantic day. “This nonsense absolutely ruins the novelty of coming here for a stroll. This wasn’t around the last time I was here.”

“A measure against terrorist attacks, I guess.” Clark put on a pleasant face for the security guards, but Bruce knew that he was displeased.

Yet again, the back of Bruce’s mind itched with aggravation. Never mind that he himself was annoyed by the queueing and pat downs, but Clark’s displeasure felt like a personal affront. He knew he was being irrational, but surely, it was not normal to feel such irrational anger towards one’s partner for an extended time.

By the time they finally stood underneath the monstrous steel construction, they were both more than ready to call it a day. The novelty of the tourist attraction had worn off pretty quickly like the sightseeing equivalent of a coitus interruptus. Not an ideal situation for two well-travelled men who had both seen it all and also looking to relight their fire of love.

“On the positive side, I think this four Euros worth of hard croissant can totally multitask as both bread _and_ a spare part for the Eiffel Tower in a pinch,” Clark said through a mouthful of alarmingly crunchy pastry he got from the overpriced food stand.

Bruce, who had been chewing on a soggy doughnut, snorted out a mix of saliva and chocolate icing. He let a disgusted Clark wipe his chin and blinked up at him, allowed a wave of familiarity to wash over him.

He had always loved the way Clark was able to infuriate him just as quickly as he could turn a shit situation light-hearted. That feeling of fondness was a relief, and he held onto it for fear of losing it again so soon.

They ate their abysmal lunch as they walked along the Champ de Mars in a rainfall of cherry blossoms at the peak of their blooming season. At least that part of timing was spot on according to Bruce’s planning. He did not quite believe in kitsch but there was something about the aesthetics of pinks and brightness that did encourage romanticism in even this old man’s weary and disenchanted heart.

He even tolerated Clark’s hand seeking his; their fingers intertwining, emitting warmth and strength— alive amongst the prettiness of dying flowers.

There were age spots all across the back of his hand and it was papery thin. If Clark was in full bloom, Bruce was a petal about to hit the ground.

He found that he did not mind.

His mortality had been a source of insecurity once. Losing his youth and good looks when Clark was eternally carved in marble was a vanity he had managed to overcome. And Clark had dealt with the reverse implication at one point as well. It had been their biggest struggle and at the same time testimony to the depth of their devotion.

To think that the most extraordinary marriage on earth was threatened by something as banal as falling out of love was simply absurd.

“Clark.”

Clark halted in his steps. The gravel scrunched as he turned towards his husband. Clark always looked at him with his full attention. He was beautiful with flowers in his hair.

“We should have had a big wedding in a big church with a multimillion dollar reception.”

Naturally, Clark reacted with no sign of comprehending. “We both wanted a no fuss wedding. And it sure was enough for me.”

“You don’t understand,” Bruce gritted out, “Maybe millennia of wedding ceremonies across all cultures were onto something. Ritualistic solidifications, sweet nothings written on paper. It all makes sense if you think about it.”

Clark did not look like any of it made any sense. Irritation took over again. “Just think. You still love me because you are the type to keep wearing the same toiletry set I gave you on our first Valentines.”

“Hold on,” Clark grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, eyes wide. “You are seriously chalking up whatever it is right now to you not being…demonstrative enough? We agreed we are made of more relevant things, didn’t we?”

Bruce huffed— frustrated that Clark could not see the obvious that remained. “And we did that, yes we did. All of my unvoiced declarations of love, my neglect to bring you flowers on Sundays— because we knew there were other tokens of love like ultimate trust or loyalty or fidelity…or that I would take a Kryptonite bullet for you. We lived through it all but…” Bruce grew more frantic in his attempt to deduce this alien reality. “But we didn’t even fight and still, I woke up one day and looked at you and did not think that I love you.”

“Babe.” A term of endearment. Clark’s attempt to offer Bruce something more graspable than an abstract idea of love that was slowly escaping him. “Why are you trying to make it look like it’s your fault somehow?

“Sometimes, it’s nobody’s fault. Some people write all the love songs and buy all the flowers. Even so, love can still die away just like that.”

Bruce could see Clark’s heart break with every word he managed to force out.

“You don’t often hear about all the relationships that ended in peace. Nobody regretted what they had, nevertheless, it came to an end like a long chapter. These stories just make a very unsatisfying book ending for those looking from afar. Doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. Not everything has to have a reason, Bruce.”

It was amazing how Clark, clearly the one being wronged in this scenario, attempted to comfort Bruce. Unfathomable. Laughable. Heartbreaking.

“We are Superman and the original Batman. The best romance in history since Marc Antony and Cleopatra,” Bruce declared— with a tone that challenged any further arguments.

“You do know they ended in tragedy, right?”

However, Clark was beaming.

* * *

“They are gone.”

Clark barely paid attention as he was too busy trying to get a good angle on the Seine. His Instagram account as Bruce Wayne’s rags to riches husband had a sizeable following.

It was alarming how there were already conspiratory voices about a failed marriage, simply because they were in Paris but with no trace of the Gotham billionaire on any of the uploaded vacation photos just yet.

“Clark. They are gone. They were supposed to be here.”

Bruce huffed at Clark’s apparent lack of common knowledge. He spread his arms to direct his husband’s gaze all along the pedestrian bridge where they stood.

Instead of mutual shock, he was met with confused eyebrows above a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

“The locks, Clark. This bridge was supposed to be completely covered in padlocks.”

Finally, a sign of recognition dawned on the other. “Are you talking about the love locks?”

“The very ones. Couples from all over the world have proclaimed their love…and…and I guess locked it all up around here. There is a solid symbolism somewhere.” Bruce made a full turn as if to ascertain that they were really gone. “Interesting. They simply disappeared. Could it be the result of a villainous act? But then there should have been more public outcry.”

Clark cleared his throat, and he was clearly grinning. “Actually, they have been gone for about three years now. I read an article about how the locks were seriously damaging this historic bridge…and so they were removed under the reasoning that Parisian bridges could no longer withstand everyone’s gesture of love.”

Bruce stared.

He could not believe he had missed this very important information during his research. He looked like a lost elderly to any passer-by.

Clark was still chuckling about Bruce being deprived of a silly tourist attraction when he realised what the other had probably been planning to do. The laughter died in his throat.

“Did you…did you want to lock one up for the two of us?”

Bruce’s expression had turned unreadable. He walked on towards the other riverside without another word other than, “Let’s go see the Mona Lisa.”

* * *

They had dinner at an upscale restaurant where one was expected to swallow foam and pretend it was three Michelin star food. Clark kept waiting for the escargot, but Bruce ended up chiding him for perpetrating stereotypes.

Then a plate of snails, proudly planted on top of a salad hill (to resemble a nature landscape), was served to the couple.

“One thing about the French is,” Clark said as he scooped out the meat, “that they readily agree to and own their stereotypes.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You’re in a good mood.”

The twinkle in Clark’s eyes was unexpected. “We’re on a vacation, why shouldn’t I be?”

“The fact that I’m not thinking about sex with you every single time I look at you, for one.”

“Ouch.” Clark feigned an expression of hurt. “But then again, you managed twenty years of being constantly horny about me. That’s more than most husbands can claim about their partner.”

“Yes, well. Only because it was a better way of staying fit than any exercise.”

“You have a graph of your orgasm progression, just so you can track the decline of how often you can cum in a day as you age, Bruce.”

Bruce’s deadpan stare did not give any indication that they were having a conversation that was not usually conducted in polite society. The other patrons graciously kept their countenance neutral, though without a doubt, they were eavesdropping.

“You’re trying to distract from my first question.”

Clark dabbed his mouth and sipped the glass of Chardonnay. He was contemplating rather seriously now. “I don’t know how to explain. I was sad, of course. But then…I enjoyed our time today.”

“Literally nothing went according to plan today.”

“That’s true. But I feel giddy and anxious at every single thing. Whenever I get to make you smile or do something right, it feels extremely rewarding. It reminds me of back in the days when I was clumsily trying to flirt and impress you.” Clark reached across the table and caressed his husband’s hand, his fingertips slid underneath the hem of Bruce’s sleeves.

Bruce hesitated, and then smiled.

“I don’t deserve you Mr Wayne,” he said.

Clark took the hand he was holding and kissed it with a reverence that made Bruce’s throat feel tight. It was movie-like. Like a first date.

“You deserve the world, Mr Wayne. And if keeping you means making you fall for me all over again, then I’d gladly do so.”

The sommelier just off the side, holding a bottle of expensive wine, tried hard to blink away the tears that had accumulated in his eyes. Some other patrons were battling the same case of stinging eyes.

They walked back to the hotel in silence. Bruce had ample time to reflect on his feelings. It seemed like he was not indifferent to Clark’s charm, although that was whenever there was a moment that allowed him to be swept away by the mood.

Something about that made him uncertain about lulling himself into a sense of security about his feelings. For after all, it would not be fair to only rely on Clark constantly giving him the absolute most, just so Bruce would feel stimulated enough for any affection to emerge.

Bruce wondered if this was what achieving a state of contentedness brought him— namely that after a life in a crusade, having made peace with that journey as much as was possible for him, and now settled down with a family of two generations— that he could not simply allow himself that happily ever after.

Was he, in spite of it all, sabotaging himself? But in doing that, he was slowly marring the relationship he had previously pined for the most. A life’s work about to be unravelled before completion.

Right now, all he could do was, for the first time in his life, rely on some magic of the moment. He knew that he was not one to value banalities such as spending time for the specific purpose of cultivating one’s relationship. Whilst Clark was more inclined to do that, he was also not one to press for vacations or dates— simply because he was understanding, and he himself had different priorities that were, despite everything, not unlike Bruce’s.

After all, they were a couple who used to save the world on the daily. A box of chocolate had nothing on seeing your partner be bruised and battered but alive after a long day of fighting intergalactic threats.

All of that was replaced by company paperwork and real, honest-to-goodness, plain everyday life. As plain as being the owner of a conglomerate could be— but of course, that was nothing compared to Batman. And yet he still had not started to buy Clark flowers. And the adrenaline rush of being battle lovers had slowly trickled into non-existence.

Later in the night, he lay in bed staring at Clark’s sleeping figure. Wishing that if he stared long enough, the love would return.

* * *

Versailles was a whole day’s trip— even Bruce knew not to schedule any other activities for the day. Even with that much time, they decided to forego the Palace of Versailles in favour of the Estate of the Trianon. It was less crowded, since most tourists would usually prioritise the grand palace, and by the end of the day were too tired to make the long trek to the more secluded attraction of smaller palaces.

Naturally, it was no coincidence that Bruce had proposed the Trianon palaces and gardens. Alongside the pragmatic reasons, Bruce counted on the estate’s original purpose as an intimate retreat for the king and his queen (and, well, his mistresses) to enchant him back into love.

He was truly that desperate.

“Can you imagine being so powerful as to build a whole little complex just to have sex in?” Clark was basking under the morning sun amidst flowers in full bloom and fragrant lemon trees. “I guess the grand palace just did not leave you any room for a single inch of privacy, what with people staring at even the shape of your faecal matter.”

Bruce grunted. “When we were younger, we also used to fuck in the manor’s garden pavilion. Same thing.”

“That thing is a shack compared to this place,” said Clark with teasing laughter— but there was a nostalgic quality to the curve of his lips and the distance in his eyes.

Even Bruce ended up reminiscing those times. It was almost carefree and awfully young of them, despite perhaps having been in their late thirties back then. The manor had been too crowded, although being grand enough to house each son in a different corner, and they would often just disappear into the gardens like horny teenagers.

They had eventually realised that windows still existed after several of the kids had complained about gross exposure to their father shoving his tongue down Superman’s throat. Subsequently, Bruce had rediscovered the small pavilion in his garden. It was soon referred to as the Love Nest by Dick.

Indeed, letting his gaze wander around the vast garden complex, Bruce could see the very same paradise in that moment. Not as grand as the Trianon but just as loaded with intimate memories.

Clark looked like he was lost in the very same memory— his cheerful demeanour calmed down to a wistful reverie. “I’m glad we came here. It’s a lovely place.”

Bruce nodded and offered him a tentative smile. They then made their way to the Petit Trianon, a small palace of barely any consequence when compared to Versailles as a whole, except for the fact that Marie-Antoinette preferred said residence.

The queen’s room was not as lavishly decorated as expected. In fact, it was almost sparse. The window overlooked the vast English garden. It was a contrasting landscape to the symmetrical, thoroughly planned-out design of French gardens. Nature was purposefully left unkempt— an idealised view of it. And right in the middle of the landscape that unfurled before their eyes, stood a circular garden folly.

They decided to stroll over on the narrow winding road by the river branch until they reached the small island that was the dwelling place of the folly. Bruce silently patted himself on the back for managing the long hike between both the Grand and Petit Trianon and the extensive gardens. In fact, he barely exerted his joints.

The folly did not even pretend to serve any practical function. It stood raised on top of a circular platform with a bright cupola supported by twelve corinthians, and the centrepiece of the structure was a sculpture of Cupid with his bow.

“Well, isn’t this just perfect, Bruce?” Clark had on a mirthful smile. “A temple of love— which is exactly what we need right now.”

“God, how tacky.”

Clark laughed. “Isn’t tacky what we were looking for?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “So, what would a struggling couple do in such a temple of love?”

“Good question…maybe profess their love to one another again and hope for it to turn into a magic spell,” Clark said. His words came out in a mumbling rush, as if he had not quite intended to say any of it out loud. Or like a prayer.

“Clark…I—”

“It’s okay, Bruce. I was being silly…as silly as a desperate husband can be about such things,” he said. The bitterness filtered through, and frankly, Bruce could not blame him. “Don’t misunderstand— we’ve actually had an amazing day so far.”

They did. Bruce was surprised himself. He had not been unfoundedly irritated by Clark’s mere existence at all. Instead, he had felt a deep homesickness for long ago summer days with him.

“I understand, Clark. I’m sorry for making you go through all this and making you work hard to salvage this relationship. And yes…it has actually been a good day,” Bruce said. It was actually quite a romantic setting. A monument of love on an island, Cupid gazing at them from his high ground, their lone figures partially shrouded by branches and foliage. “I don’t think I can give you a soaring love confession right now.”

Clark shook his head. “It’s not like you’re the type to do that under normal circumstances anyway. Again, it’s fine, Bruce.”

“But I can give you this.”

Bruce stepped forward and felt a bit like an idiot. Clark watched him, and Cupid watched him too, and he really did not need a stony naked young man throwing him off like this.

But he managed to put one hand on Clark’s waist, the fabric of his sweater yielded to his touch with luxurious softness. Bruce only noticed just then that it had been his last Christmas present. _Small demonstrations of love_.

By the time he finally gathered his resolve to raise his other hand towards Clark’s jaw, the other’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. Bruce stifled an impulsive coo at the darling display. Really, how could he ever want to hurt this man? His own feelings be damned.

“Recently, I thought that I could get along without you very well. And to be honest, I do think that my feelings have changed in a way…in a redefining way. But whenever it came to imagining a life without you…I just couldn’t. Maybe I have been naïve about married life for over twenty straight years.”

Clark burst out a shaky laughter that was loaded with relief. “No, we’ve actually come a long way. We actually talk about our feelings— that was our longest construction site. Our relationship could not have survived a situation like this fifteen years ago.”

Bruce tucked Clark’s beautiful lock away from his temple, only for it to stubbornly bounce back in place.

No, a declaration of love under the roof of an ornamental structure really was not something he was ready to do, no matter how badly Clark wanted to re-enact that Mr. Darcy moment.

But he could show it just fine. Mr. Darcy could never.

Kissing Clark was that homecoming after the homesickness.

Once he had stopped looking for the blazing fire, he could feel the warmth of the glowing embers. It penetrated his ageing skin and bones, and he sighed into the kiss. The familiar cold of Clark’s frames bumping against his cheeks grounded him; the lingering citrus fragrance from the lemon trees overwhelmed him. Clark did that to him.

“Clearly, I have grossly underestimated the power of the temple of love,” Bruce rasped out after that very satisfying kiss.

“Hm. Will have to leave a positive review on Yelp,” Clark said with the graveness of Superman.

“Excuse me,” an unceremonious voice said behind them.

Both turned and found a very annoyed young woman staring up at them, smartphone in hand. “Would you mind? You’ve been occupying the temple for long enough.”

Bruce wanted to retort that nothing was stopping her and her boyfriend from getting on it as well, but she didn’t look like she particularly wanted two hugging old men in the background of her couple selfie.

“Looks like our time with Cupid is up. Let’s go grab a snack.”

“Yeah, looking forward to more rock croissants.”

* * *

The following day, Clark asked to leave the planning for the evening to him. He even disappeared around the afternoon, only telling Bruce to show up to the location he had messily scribbled down on a hotel post-it. Not being one to enjoy people messing with his schedule, Bruce had been cross at first, though, his curiosity ended up getting the better of him.

Judging by the location given to him, it appeared to be something right by the river bank. Perhaps a boat trip along the Seine? No, he had considered one for their vacation himself, and the name did not match any of the ones he had researched. And he had researched them all in detail.

 _Les Romances Sans Paroles_ also was a name that indicated more aesthetic pomp than warranted for a simple tourist boat. So, Bruce concluded that it was probably going to be a restaurant or, judging by the late hour of their appointment, a bar. Which was a weird thing for Clark to suggest. They had not frequented a bar in what must have been years.

That was one thing he was not sure he was still cut out to do. Bruce Wayne was still glamorous and attended galas— in that regard, nothing much had changed. But after marrying, and after he had hit a certain age, the promiscuous front had not been a priority anymore. At one point, he altogether stopped frequenting any nightlife establishments.

If he was going to be honest, he was not sure if he even would still look and feel right. What if there were only young people? What should he even wear? He obviously did not pack any attire for going out, and the dinner suits were definitely overkill.

He still had a couple hours, and he was in Paris. Maybe it was time to do some fashion shopping. He sighed and leant back in his chair. It was the first time since arriving here that he had some alone time. He might as well treat himself. He opened up his laptop and searched for the nearest boutique.

The _Les Romances Sans Paroles_ turned out to be outdoors, some kind of a pop-up bar by the Seine. Tastefully decorated wooden tables were arranged all across the staircase platform leading down to the river.

The ambience of the place was all nonintrusive instrumentals, warm luminosity from fairy lights, and after-work people filling the space with cheerful chatter. Bruce found the actual bar under a pavilion, several bartenders mixing and pouring drinks for the patrons.

Dismissing his chauffeur for the time being, Bruce roamed the interesting place and let his observing eyes wander, both in search of his husband and also to soak everything in.

The view was peak Parisian night time romance. The city unfurled before him on the other side of the river, her sparkling lights reflected in the water, and the Eiffel Tower’s glittering illumination made for a complete package of the iconic silhouette.

He had to weave his way through several occupied tables and discovered that there were people of almost all ages. There were university students, middle-aged people, people his age, and they all seemed to be mingling. The predominant language he could hear was French, so it was a popular meeting place for locals. Several patio heaters kept even the cool spring evening air warm, thus there was no shortage of cocktail dresses.

Bruce was glad that he had decided to pick up a new ensemble for the night. Even though the bar was by no means particularly exclusive, it did lean more towards upscale— a smart-casual affair. Whatever that actually meant, he would never be quite able to grasp.

He did feel…good in tonight’s attire, actually. Confidence was rarely lacking in someone as established and notorious as Bruce Wayne, though he had to admit that he had had his reservations about going out for the sake of _going out_.

His new midnight coloured Saint Laurent wool jacket was a flattering fit, sculpting his figure in perfect uninterrupted lines that made his silhouette stark, despite the fact that it was ready-to-wear and not bespoke. A second-skin, impossibly thin, beige turtleneck lent the overall picture an aspect of interest.

By the time he had reached the bar area, there was still no Clark in sight. Not wanting to appear lost, he sat onto an empty barstool, gaze still subtly scanning the crowd as he unbuttoned his jacket. He aptly ordered himself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in French.

As he waited for his order, he let the events of the last couple days sink in. It was still so dreamlike and utterly illogical. He thought that he could make sense and put into an equation whatever love was made of. That if he had started to somehow dislike Clark, one of them surely was to blame or that there was a catalyst that could be undone if only he could get to the bottom of it like a detective’s work.

Not enough dates, not enough small presents here and there, a change in character, ageing blues— the reasons could be many or even none. And now that he was sure that he would not prefer a life without his long-time partner, it did not even feel like he had fallen back into love. It was more like his heart had recalibrated after a brief period of panic.

Bruce was resting his chin on one hand, elbow propped on top of the counter, as he began to let out a low laugh at the situational hilarity of it all. His geriatric love drama was no less intense than the time when he had been convinced that Clark was going to marry Lois (he had dramatically announced that he would disappear for a couple months to…hone his shark fighting skills with the Atlanteans just to avoid Clark).

“Bonsoir monsieur.”

Bruce blinked. He turned his head just slightly to see that a woman of around thirty had approached him. She was effortlessly beautiful, face made up with only some darkened lashes and bright red lips.

She was not alone, he realised. A man was at her side, holding her arm— presumably her partner. He was also quite handsome with his golden hair framing a prominently shaped face.

They engaged him in small talk, asking him about his origin and his occupation. Upon learning that Bruce was an “American entrepreneur”, they switched to English. He found out that they were both indeed partners and worked in literary academics.

“Monsieur, how long do you intend to stay in Paris?” The woman asked. Her voice had a dark quality to it, most likely a true alto if she were to sing.

“Ah, only a couple more days.” Bruce took a sip of his wine.

“So, you have time then?” The man, who had now occupied the seat to his other side, inquired.

Bruce thought it odd that they had decided to flank him to his either side, rather than sitting next to each other. And that question puzzled him a bit.

“I mean, of course, will you have enough time to see all the sights in Paris?”

“This is not my first time here, but I don’t think I’ll be able to see it all any time soon,” Bruce conceded.

“Oh, but I bet it’s nothing compared to Gotham. It must be such a fascinating city.” The woman had a genuine twinkle in her eyes.

Bruce chuckled and shook his head. “That is one way to describe Gotham, though not exactly something you would hear from any Gothamite or any American, really. However, I appreciate your enthusiasm, madame. I’m pretty fond of my hometown myself.”

They continued the topic of Gotham for a while, and Bruce was surprised that he did not mind the company. He had not expected that young people would be so interested in the life of a man nearly double their age. But there was something in the air between them that he could not quite pinpoint.

“The way you talk is so very pleasant, Bruce.” The man offered him a charming smile that was in essence just a very slight but effective curve of his lips.

Ah. That was it.

The way they chose to each sit next to him, the body language that was always leaning in his direction, the accidental brushing of fingertips, all that lingering eye contact, the way they seemed to have to wet their lips a little bit too often, even with drinks in their hands. They were flirting. No, they were outright attempting to seduce him. Both of them.

He was not mistaken. The question about how he planned to occupy his time had come up for the fifth time already, and the physical proximity was closing in. There definitely was real intent going on. And Bruce was absolutely taken aback.

Back then he would have identified such games in an instant, but he no longer considered himself to be in any way eligible for such advances. Take away the glamour of his money, he was only an old man with maybe above average looks, but still an old man.

“Say, Bruce…we don’t live too far from here…”

Bruce could not believe that this was truly happening. He could explode in laughter any moment now. In the end, though, he did feel flattered.

“Both of you are truly wonderful specimens, but I’m afraid that I’m already—”

“Bonsoir.”

 _Oh Jesus Christ, not again. I can’t be that popular_. Bruce turned his body to tell it to the newcomer suitor— only to come face to face with Clark.

Silence followed, and Bruce glared at him.

Clark moved his gaze from the one person to Bruce’s left to the one to his right. He then smiled at them, and the devastation of Clark’s smile overshadowed the others. Especially with the way he looked tonight.

Bruce had to double take, looked him up from top to bottom. Clark wore Dior. There was no mistaking it.

Ever since being married into a billionaire household, Clark did wear mostly premium-quality clothes, but they were never those that, most often than not, came with an obnoxiously visible logo. He preferred the low-profile makers. So yes, Clark never wore Dior.

He obviously had run off for some shopping as well. And he was a figure of subtle seduction. No, Bruce was sure that nobody on that fucking riverbank had missed the memo. The silhouette of the white zip-up jacket he wore was almost streetwear with the loose and comfortable fit. It was almost bomber jacket-like, except for the way the fabric was extraordinarily delicate and lightweight. The majority of it was completely opaque until the bottom third transitioned into sheer filigree lace.

When Clark rose his arm to touch the small of Bruce’s back, he caught a glimpse of the other’s wrist underneath the gossamer part of the subtly puffy sleeves. And were those grey suit trousers a bit tight?

Bruce’s throat felt dry and no amount of swallowing was helping. One would think that men of his age would not suit such a style, but the merging of traditionally male clothing silhouettes with traditionally female garments had him tongue-tied.

“I’m sorry,” Clark addressed the couple, “This gentleman is with me.”

There it was. The pleasant mild-mannered reporter voice with a dash of possessive edge. The heat of Clark’s palm against his back should not have penetrated his layers but he felt the tingle on his skin anyway.

The couple looked equally perplexed. “Are you…his date?”

Clark was practically radiating sunlight. “Husband, actually.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable at first but then Bruce could not tolerate such nonsense for long. He rose and straightened the non-existent creases of his jacket. “Well, it was pleasure to get to know the two of you.”

The woman looked like she wanted to say something more, maybe invite Clark too, but was stopped short by his increasingly distancing smile.

“Actually, Bruce, I wanted to ask you for the next dance,” Clark said conversationally.

Dance? In the midst of the most curious encounter, Bruce had not noticed that the music had increased in volume and that it had been replaced by sensual and upbeat Tango tunes. By now, the platform closest to the river was filled with dancing couples.

The levels of skill varied greatly amongst the dancers, but nobody seemed to care that some were tripping over their feet, while others were twirling and lifting with their bodies perfectly taut.

Bruce turned to the French couple one last time before offering them a small bow of farewell.

“You sure are popular, Mr. Wayne.” Clark was still smiling and this time it appeared more genuine.

“They were probably just really into that kind of thing, Clark. They were hardly representative.”

“Well, the threesome part maybe. But the way you look tonight…the way you always look is just show stopping.”

Bruce raised his brow in a clear demonstration of doubt. It was ridiculous to him, the things Clark was saying, and yet…

“I mean it.” Clark’s hand had wandered up to caress Bruce’s nape, his voice low. “You might not realise it, but you radiate man who had conquered life. It’s all in the way you dress and carry yourself, you must know that yourself. You taught me a lot about how to project a state of being larger than life as part of image building. But with you it’s natural, especially now that you no longer bother to play the idiot playboy all the time.

“It’s a difficult aura to project as a young man, but you are at that age, in which your charisma only becomes amplified. And if that isn’t the sexiest thing everybody tonight has ever seen.”

Bruce kept their steady pace towards the dance floor, his face unreadable. But his heart was racing. Clark could not tune that out even if he tried. What happened to warm embers in his gut?

He felt…nervous around Clark. The last time he felt this way was when he had first realised his feelings, or during their first date, definitely in the fraction of a second leading up to their first kiss, and absolutely before their first intimate touch.

Blistering heat settled at the bottom of his stomach, toe curling and restless. He had settled for a companionable love that was more faithful tenderness than this suddenly onslaught of his libido.

“And you know what’s the most delectable part of you?” Clark continued. His hand was back to searing Bruce’s lower back. “You know your effect on others. You’ve always utilised it. That hasn’t changed today. But also, you _don’t know_. You could be intentionally setting people off just as often as you would unintentionally.”

Well, Bruce knew exactly why. If he had an ulterior motif and an agenda, he knew how to play the people. People who were not relevant to any of those, he simply tuned out, they did not register. That was arrogance.

Worse was how he would always fail to notice the signs around him when they originated from people close and dear to him. That was stupid assholery.

And there was a Superman who fell in love with such a man anyway.

They stood just off the makeshift dancefloor, waiting for the song to end, so they could join in the next dance.

Of all the ballroom dances Bruce had to master, the tango was one he practiced the least. Not many social gatherings he had to attend required him to dance the tango. He was not sure how Clark was with that one. Going up the social circle meant learning standard dances and given that Clark was obsessed with doing a thorough job, he probably at least knew the basics.

Finally, the song ended, and another began with a loud opening led by violins and then bandoneons. The increasingly buzzed bar patrons cheered at the new tune. Bruce took the cue and stepped into the dancing area, hand extended towards Clark in invitation. In doing that, he also appointed himself as the lead.

Clark sent a downright sinful smile his way and the heat in his stomach turned into licking flames. As soon as Clark had enclosed his hand around Bruce’s, his whole body was tempestuously pulled flush against the other’s chest. They were now chest to chest, already heaving before any strenuous part had even begun.

Locked in a close embrace, their foreheads touching, Bruce led the first walk and angled their bodies into the counter clockwise spins around the dance floor. With their chest touching, there was no mistaking the drum beats wreaking havoc inside the both of them. Their surrounding was a blur.

During the fast cross-walks, their foreheads remained connected and their eyes were gazing into each other with a long-lost intensity. Their breathing came out in hot puffs— for Bruce because he was feeling the strain of the movements and of his fraying self-control. For Clark it was just the strain that was about to take place in his trousers.

At the peak of the passionate opening, the music entered a new, much gentler theme. Bruce followed the rhythm with a sigh and turned his face to press his cheek against Clark’s. This time, he allowed his eyes to close, relying on his memory and senses to navigate them.

He cherished the way they were able to talk about their feelings without anything holding them back, but he had missed the way they could communicate in songs without words.

Their knees and hips brushed again and again, especially during Bruce’s sharp turns of their bodies. At one such encounter, Bruce thrust his hip lingeringly against Clark, eliciting from him a gasp that tipped into a low moan.

He had said that grandiose declarations of love were not his forte. But then he was whispering love messages in Clark’s ear. Uncontrollable shivers ran through his husband’s body with every “I love you” and “I adore you” and “I want you.”

Never in his life could he have anticipated that he would one day wake up not loving Clark. The emptiness of a love lost was not something he ever wanted to have a repeat of. In the end, he never found the answer to why it had happened.

Guitar, flute, violin, and bandoneons launched into a final climax, thus Bruce tightened his grip around Clark and dipped him deep. Clark reflexively sought to reconnect with his husband, so he hooked one leg around Bruce’s thigh, pushing his groin against him.

Bruce stared down at Clark who was flushed red from not-exertion. He himself probably looked worse with his sweat-slick hair falling in his face. None of it mattered, because after all, nothing could stay lost forever with Clark in his life. He lost his love back in Gotham, then found it again in Clark’s adoring countenance.

“I want you, Clark Kent. Mr. Wayne. My Superman.”

Clark surged forward and pulled him in for a bruising kiss.

* * *

Bruce remembered their first horny romp in the back of a limousine. It was an active struggle then, and an act of sheer impossibility, not to mention pain, now. Two fully grown men of considerable age were not naturally meant to contort their bodies in limited space for the sole purpose of fucking.

Whenever the car rolled over cobblestones, Clark’s rubbing thighs would accidentally knock against his groin. And then there was the sticky leather seat clinging to any of his exposed skin.

Bruce was still hard.

He ought to relieve himself from the discomfort of his non-bespoke trousers, and it would also feel so much better if Clark could jack him off— but undressing was the last thing on his mind. He was chasing the pleasure that he had forgotten. His erratic thrusts against Clark’s own clothed erection were urgent, as if afraid to lose it all again.

Underneath him, Clark made no attempt to strip them, either. Bruce recognised the same urgency in his eyes.

They were both desecrating their newly bought garments, and Bruce needed to soak Clark’s partially translucent top.

Another bump on the road had Clark’s head slipping from the backseat. Bruce took advantage and attacked his exposed neck like a man devouring his first meal after days of hunger. Clark’s cry made his cock ready to burst at any moment. Then he felt hands gripping his ass, driving him harder against the other hardness.

Just a little more, he thought. Their tango was culminating in red heat.

Clark lifted his hips off the seat to drive his pleasure home. His lower half stayed suspended in the air, shuddering against Bruce’s own clothed cock, as he screamed out his climax.

Kryptonian orgasm built up in waves. During that time, Clark was a mostly unresponsive, quivering mess. Bruce could only watch and wonder how he could ever have spent a day thinking that this man was in any way undesirable.

His own orgasm was almost a disappointment with how it had exploded without warning. And by the time he had realised what had happened, it was almost over. It shook his very soul— erupted in his garments until they were both soaked in their mixed cum.

Clark lifted his sticky hands to pull Bruce down for a gentle kiss. He always acted almost chase in the afterglow, even though they were sitting in a pool of inhuman amount of ejaculate.

It was also in that moment that Bruce realised that he was in pain; joints frozen in acrobatic positions.

“You have to slowly move me upright,” he gritted out.

Clark was too blissed out to make old man jokes, and so he righted Bruce’s position with gentle lifts until he was sitting again. None of them bothered to appear respectable, instead opting to inform the chauffeur through the intercom that they would pay for the cleaning expenses.

What followed was an embarrassed silence. 

"You think Alfred is rolling in his grave right now? For ruining leather seats and brand new designers?" 

"His human remains would have already been here with a shotgun, except we're ruining French seats and French designers. So, really, we're fine."

They faced each other with blank stares— their faces going through stages from pursed lips, crinkling eyes, and then bursting into uncontrolled giggles.

* * *

For the first week back at Wayne Manor, Bruce would wake up in the middle of the night to stare at his husband.

Each time he experienced a moment of fear that those hateful feelings had returned, until he realised that he always ended up just looking at Clark in fondness (and sometimes lust— which then lead into waking the other for sex). Only then was he able to rest easy.

Nevertheless, he would make sure to buy Clark flowers from time to time. And then plan more vacations to maybe London, Greece, Egypt, Thailand, Kansas.

A lifetime of love tokens. 


End file.
